Birth of a King
by Paradocs
Summary: "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?
1. Chapter 1

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated: **T

**Genre: **Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs: **This is actually an idea I've been toying with for a while now. Because we _all _know that Bakura isn't 'evil', and he never was... right? Anyway, this is my first semi-canon story that isn't a one-shot. And it's where I'm throwing my muse when I can't think about **Hikari no Kage**.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

* * *

**Beginnings**

Adjo looked at his surroundings from the safety of his brown stallion's back. He didn't like this area. It was bad for trade. Every merchant from Memphis to Cairo knew that. Journeying this far from the Nile's banks, this far into the Red Land...

_There was a reason we were taught that the desert was home to demons. _He glanced at the armed men surrounding his caravan. He'd hired them, fighters, all of them, to protect his goods.

It hadn't occured to Adjo at the time to hire a navigator. The trip to the Southern Lands was supposed to be swift, easy. And Adjo had never thought that a boat up the Nile would be safer than trekking across the land with his caravan of goods.

So now his party was here, with a wagon loaded with precious goods: incense, ebony, mahogany, gold. Lost in the middle of bandit country, and with no idea which way the sacred river lay.

_Easy pickings, _thought the wild-haired man watching from the top of a cliff nearby. Those merchants were soft, foolish, greedy things. It almost hurt Nebibi to watch the young merchant wander around the desert with his men and treasures.

"Someone," the man said to no one in particular, straightening up from his crouched stance, "should go down there and help them with that cart. After all," the Egyptian turned to the group behind him. "We wouldn't want them to have to worry about their _precious_ goods, now, would we?"

The group laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. Most of them wore rough cotton kilts, with vicious blades tucked into the rope belts that held their only clothes up. Many had the weathered, grizzled faces that suggested a rough life; a few were younger, but their faces held the same eagerness as their elders. Nebibi smirked as he eyed his band. Bandits, the lot of them, with the quick minds and cruel hearts that were a requirement of the trade. They were more clever than any scribe, though many of them couldn't read more than a few glyphs; they caused more harm than any soldier of the Pharaoh might have in the bloodiest war.

And of the entire gang, Nebibi's mind was fastest, his heart the most bloodied by battles. He was the leader of the thieves, the King of their village of Kul Elna.

"Well?" He barked suddenly, the smirk vanishing. "What are you waiting for?" The gang scrambled on to their own horses, the white-haired King mounting his own jet-black steed far more calmly than they did. "There's treasure ahead for us, loves," he laughed as they rode down the secret paths they knew too well. The men laughed with him as they closed in on the party, all in high spirits. This was what they lived for, after all.

* * *

"Do you know when you've been cheated, merchant?" Nebibi asked the man kneeling in front of him, one guard on either side of him. Adjo swallowed nervously, afraid to answer the well-muscled thief king. "Well?" Nebibi's voice began to lose its amused tone. Usually, he liked toying with his quarry before he killed them; occasionally, he'd let one member of the raided group survive, just to watch them die later in the desert, lost and afraid. But today, he was anything but happy. The bounty from this merchant's cartel had been shoddy, the wood barely worth anything, the gold the only thing worth more than a copper.

When Adjo still didn't answer, the tanned man turned away, disinterested.

"Kill them." He said off-handedly to his men, as though the matter was of no more consequence than the day's weather. Nomti and Odji, the two men standing on either side of Adjo, grinned, picking up the shocked man in their calloused hands and nodding back towards their comrades, who'd held their blades to the other captives' throats during Nebibi's 'conversation' with the merchant.

A swift movement of their well-muscled arms, and the men lay dead, the sand absorbing the crimson streams that poured forth from their necks. Odji nodded to his younger companion, who, with a devlish grin, stood Adjo up so that they were face-to-face.

"We don't have to kill you, you know," he said comfortingly, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder. Adjo looked at him, wide-eyed in shock at his sudden display of camaraderie. Nomti continued, keeping his voice friendly, soothing, even. "We won't let you die like your guards. We promise."

"What are the promises of thieves worth?" Adjo said bitterly. The young bandit feigned hurt.

"Why, I'm shocked, friend! We may be thieves, sure as sand is sand, but you won't find any more honest men than us in the whole world! Ain't that right, Odji?"

The elder man nodded sagely, shoving his knife between Adjo's shoulder blades. "Right you are, young'n. We never go back on our word." Pulling out his blades, he wiped them casually on Adjo's headcovering, letting the corpse fall into the sand without any display of respect. "C'mon, now. Let's get this back home, eh? Sure the women're waitin' for us to bring 'em somethin' nice out of this lot, right?"

Nomti grinned, climbing onto his horse's back lithely. One man tossed him the end of a rope that was tied to a line of horses: a common bounty for them, but they were still worth a good deal. "Aye, and the men're waiting for us, too." The young thief said with a wink.

* * *

Kul Elna was a small village, tucked away among the high cliffs on the southernmost border of the kingdom and well out of the reach of even the influence of the Pharaoh's laws. The townsfolk were mainly thieves, although there was a craftsman or two scattered throughout the small population. To the uneducated eye, Kul Elna wasn't anything special. The houses were made of the same mud-bricks of every other peasant house in Egypt, the people as inconspicuous as anyone you might run into on the streets of some other town or city along the Nile. In fact, the only things that could be thought of as vaguely odd about Kul Elna were the high number of horses in the city and the lack of any temples on its streets. Instead, there was a stairway built into the face of a cliff, leading down, down, into the darkness of the underground. Otherwise, though, it was nothing noteworthy in its appearance.

In name, however, Kul Elna was the most infamous village in the Black Land.

It was said that demons lived in the village, humans who had so violated the gods that there was nothing good left in them. They stole horses, gold, wood, women, anything they could get their hands on. They murdered good and noble citizens, stole from Pharaoh's caravans, and, rumor had it, worshipped Apophis, the snake who tried each and every night to kill the Sun God Ra. Mothers told their children to stay close to the Nile, kept their daughters inside the walls of their own villages, and fathers swore to kill any thief who dared show their face near their homes.

But, as was said before, these methods did nothing to help, for who could tell one of Kul Elna's inhabitants from a traveller, a passing stranger with goods too heavy for him to carry, so he must sell them? For, while they were thieves, the people of Kul Elna had no use or desire for much of what they stole, and so, sold it in towns, so that they could buy what was truly necessary for their existence.

Nebibi sat astride his horse on the cliff above his beloved town, and smiled. He was not happy because of the raid he and his gang had pulled off a few hours before; that had been a weak one, and most certainly not their best take, not after all the years of fine plunder they'd recieved from those miserable worms who called themselves "merchants". No. Kul Elna's leader was happy for another reason, one that would, in the future, be the cause of much chaos throughout Egypt, though of course, he had no idea of this at the time.

For, from where he and the thieves stood, they could hear the lusty cries of a newborn baby.

"A boy, huh?" Odji said with a devilish grin, pulling up beside the Thief King. But the man said nothing, merely nodding and, with a whistle, urged his horse down the cliff and into the city, the rest of the group following him. Nomti caught up to his partner, looking puzzled.

"You'd think he'd be glad he's got a kid," the young thief muttered. The elder shrugged.

"He's worried, Nomti. Wants to make sure Amisi's alright." He grimaced. "Y'know how it is with 'im." Nomti paused, then nodded, saying nothing further.

Nebibi listened to the conversation, saying nothing. They were right, of course. He stopped his horse outside the doorway where the crying was loudest, leaping off his mount with the agility of his namesake, the panther, and strode inside to see the two people he'd worried over all day: his wife and, now, his newborn son.

Amisi was a pretty young woman, with skin that was barely tanned and long ebony hair. Her eyes were the blue of the lotus, and reminded her husband of the town where they'd met, of the place where she'd followed him until he'd turned around to find this pretty young girl who'd been enchanted by the carefree manner in which he'd traded with her father, by his muscular chest and long pale hair. They'd eloped, of course, not bothering to even go through the custom of getting her parents' approval; they wouldn't have let her wed such a roguish-looking young man, after all. Now, she smiled at him, a tired, but triumphant, expression, turning her magical eyes from his hard face to the little human she held in her eyes.

"Look," she whispered, as he came around so that he could kneel beside her bedside. "A little manchild, as strong and powerful as his father before him."

Nebibi smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. "Aye, and as beautiful as his mother, if I'm any judge." The new parents smiled as they looked at their son, who'd stopped his crying now to look at the newcomer into his life.

"I want to name him," Amisi said suddenly, breaking the silence. Nebibi raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, just nodding for her to continue. "How does 'Baraka' sound?"

The man snorted. "No," he said, though not unkindly. "That's not right for him. Too common for our son. He'll be King of Thieves one day, Amisi, not some peasant garbage. No..." the thief thought for a moment, calculating a way to appease his wife and still get his way.

"What about Bakura?" He suggested. "It's similar enough to Baraka, but different enough to let him make his own mark on the world with that name." The woman hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Nebibi smiled, brushing her cheek with one hand, then rising and going to the little household altar that stood in the corner. Taking a pinch of incense (the finest quality, stolen from a caravan of priests a few months before), he lit and laid it before the statue of Nut, the goddess of the nightsky and protector of mothers during childbirth. Then, almost as an afterthought, he lit another pinch before their statue of Set, to give his son strength like the god had, and Taurt, to protect Bakura during his infancy, when so many babies might die. Amisi watched this, allowing Bakura to suckle while her husband made sure that his fate was in order, that the proper gods were thanked and invoked.

"Bakura," she murmured, watching the babe whose wisps of hair were as pale and white as his father's, and whose eyes were a grey-blue, the color impossible to tell yet. "My little Bakura. You'll always be safe here, my son, in Kul Elna, in my house, with us."

Nebibi heard her words, and smiled. As he finished his prayers before the altar, he muttered, "Always."


	2. Chapter 2

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** I want it duly noted that, yes, I _do _know my Egyptian mythology. But, remember, myths and such change depending on who's telling it. ... Yeah. More for y'all later.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

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* * *

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**Lessons**

Five years had passed since the birth of Nebibi and Amisi's son. Five years, during which little had changed, except that the child named Bakura had grown from a mere babe into a quiet, solid child. His hair, white and fluffy, reached his chin; Amisi was tempted to cut it, or shave her son's head, as was customary for free-born boys in most other parts of Egypt, but Nebibi refused, saying that, "Kul Elna was not part of Egypt".

Bakura was not just different in his hairstyle; whereas most boys his age would have run around, shouting and playing at soldiers, Bakura preferred to listen. He was quiet, but not complacent, and a quick learner. He often followed the other adults around the city, silently watching their every move until his quarry turned around to see, to their surprise, the small, white-maned son of the village's leader.

At other times, he would follow his mother down the stairway that led to an underground portion of Kul Elna. Here, he'd watch as Amisi and several other villagers performed ceremonies for the several deities who protected the outskirt-village and its people. Bakura liked watching the rituals: the words the people chanted, the incense they burned as it wafted heavenward through the aperture... it filled his being with a sense of safety, that, no matter what happened, Set, the village's chief god, would protect him, aided by his siblings and lesser-gods. Amisi loved seeing her son's interest in religion, and so told him every story she knew about the gods; whenever she could not sate his thirst for heavenly knowledge, another villager would fill in for her. Nebibi watched this from a distance, knowing that, in time, he would have to teach his son himself; for now, it was important that the youngster learn as much about the gods as possible, so that he could better earn their favor.

"Wow," Bakura gasped one morning, clutching his legs to his chest as he listened, wide-eyed, to Mara, Nomti's mother, spin the tale of Osiris and the Golden Sarcophagus. "You mean that Set became king of Egypt, just because he was more clever than his brother?"

Mara laughed, ruffling the youth's hair fondly with one weathered hand. "Ah, no, no, little one. Why would the great lord Set want to rule Egypt, when he could do so much more? He gave the throne to Osiris' son, Horus, after a series of trials to prove Horus' worth. No, Set wanted to be free to protect Egypt and its people, not just whoever was ruling it."

"_Oh_," the boy said, nodding. Then he smiled brightly. "Set's really clever, isn't he?" Bakura brought his legs down from his chest, stretching them out on the ground. "But, Mara," his white eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "How did Set come to Kul Elna?"

The old woman smiled wearily, gathering up the white kilts and garments she'd been drying in the bright desert sunlight. "Bakura, isn't your father coming home tonight?" She said, changing the subject deftly. Bakura frowned, obviously not willing to let go of the subject, but the sudden clatter of metal, followed by the whinnies of horses and the loud, raucous laughter of men. The five-year-old's expression instantly brightened.

"Baba!" He shouted, leaping to his feet and running towards the noise. Barefoot, he kicked up sand behind him. From the doorway to the temple, where she and some others were emerging, Amisi smiled. Before he'd left on this particular raid, Nebibi had promised the ever-curious Bakura that, when he returned, he'd start teaching his son about thievery.

Needless to say, the child had been thrilled at the thought.

"Baba!" Nebibi turned his head at the sound of his son's cries and smiled. The other men grinned as they dismounted from their horses, leading them away with quiet chuckles. The man began to slide off his own steed's back when Bakura stopped in front of him, white mane a mess from his scramble through the sandy streets. Nebibi hid his smile at the serious look on his son's face, struggling as he saw the excitement dancing in those blue-grey eyes.

"Well, now," the grown man said seriously, finishing his dismount smoothly and landing lightly in the sand. "What's got you in such a rush to see me, Bakura?" The little boy shuffled his feet, but looked directly at his father.

"Um... Well, uh..." Bakura's voice trailed off as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he did. "Baba, you promised you'd teach me how to be a thief when you got home. And you're home now, so..." Face still serious as Anubis himself, Bakura's eyes lit up with a flare of hope at the promise.

Nebibi could have laughed at his son's expression right then; it was probably a good thing that he'd learned over the years to control and hide his emotions from others. Instead, he smirked, a characteristic of his. "Well, did I?" Bakura's head bobbed up and down with such enthusiasm, it seemed as though his head would soon fly off his neck. Nebibi laughed now, a short, barking laugh, as he clapped his son on his cloth-clad shoulder. "So I did, so I did. Now, come sit over in here with me, son. There's a lot for you to learn, if you're ever going to be as good a thief as your old man. " As he spoke, he passed the reins to an amused-looking Nomti, and led Bakura into their house. The youth plopped down on the floor, sitting cross-legged as a scribe in a busy city marketplace might, his long dress-like garment that marked him as a child covering his knees and the sleeves threatening to do the same to his hands. Nebibi chose a stool for himself, secretly glad for somewhere to sit after all the hours he'd spent in the saddle recently.

"How to be a thief..." Nebibi shrugged. "It's complicated, Bakura. What do you think being a thief's about?" The question was asked, not to give the man something to correct in his son, but to give him something to work from. It had been years since he'd had this conversation with his own father (long since gone to Osiris' realms), after all.

Bakura grinned, flashing the bright white teeth that only children and nobles had. "Fighting enemies an' stealing gold'n'jewels'n'stuff and killing anyone stupid enough to get in your way!" He said rapidly, with the sort of eagerness in his voice that Nebibi remembered once having when he'd been five years old, long ago though it was. But Nebibi didn't smile at his son; his eyes darkened with the gravity of the truths he was about to impart to the child.

"No, alu," the tanned Egyptian grimaced. "It's not about killing or stealing or fighting or anything like that. Being a thief means, well..." He paused, then continued. "Think about Set for a moment, Bakura." Delight sparked in his eyes at the mention of his favorite deity. "Did Set ever kill for his own benefit, or for that of others?"

The young boy looked up at the ceiling, thinking, with his tongue sticking up out of one corner of his mouth, then replied, "Well, he did it for everyone else's, I guess, but, Baba--"

Nebibi interrupted him. "Did he ever fight for just himself?"

"Well, no," Bakura admitted, a little sheepish. "But, Baba--"

"Steal for himself?"

"No, Baba," Bakura said, looking down at his lap. Nebibi sighed, then bent down to tip his chin back up so the two saw eye-to-eye.

"Being a thief is like that, alu. You don't steal or kill or fight for yourself," Nebibi smiled gently. "Everything you do, you do for someone else. Look at me, Bakura. Who do I steal for?"

The response was immediate. "Kul Elna, Baba."

Nebibi nodded. "Right. And I never take anymore lives than is necessary. Devourer take me if I'm lying, but a real thief never kills in cold blood, never does anything he doesn't have to do. We may steal, but we want to be judged by Osiris and Anubis as having lived a good life. We don't lie, don't cheat--" The thief laughed harshly, drawing surprise from his wide-eyed audience. "Hah! We're prob'ly more honest than most of Egypt itself!" Bakura giggled at the thought, covering his mouth with one slim-fingered hand. Nebibi ruffled his son's hair, making it more untidy than before, if that was even possible, before his tone turned serious once more.

"Anyone who calls himself a thief and steals for himself, kills without need, fights without reason, isn't a real thief. He's a liar, a cheat; it'd be more honest for him to call himself a petty _robber_--" The man spat the word out in disgust. "Than disgrace the title of thief with 'is filth." He looked at his son, grey eyes boring into the child's barely-tan skin. "Understood, Bakura?"

Bakura nodded twice, quick, deep nods that conveyed just how grave and important these matters were. Nebibi nodded just once in return.

"Alright," he smiled now, a bright, genuine smile that any father would have around their beloved only child. "Now, what's Mara been telling you about the gods while I've been gone?"

Bakura's face lit up, and, in a calm, serious tone that seemed strange coming from one of his tender years, began to tell him of how Set had given Osiris the Lands of the Dead to rule over.

* * *

That night, as Bakura lay fast asleep on his pallet near the wall, Amisi and Nebibi sat up, discussing matters that, in daylight, would have been dismissed as "grown-up stuff" to the child.

"He's got the makings of priest, dear. You should see how he absorbs everything he hears about the gods--"

"He's got the makings of a lot of things, Amisi. Scribe, priest, warrior, spy..." The man shook his wild-maned head. "No, our Bakura is going to be a _someone. _He's going to be the best Thief King this village has ever known, and we'll be all the better for it."

The blue-eyed woman bit her lower lip worriedly. "Yes, but--"

"Amisi, dear one," Nebibi lowered his voice, softening it. "Bakura has years yet before I'd even _allow _him to come on a raid with us, let alone participate. By then, he'll be able to protect himself better than any full-grown soldier, and besides," he gestured at the buildings outside, some dark as its inhabitants, others with lamps still lit and burning. "He has the protection of this entire village, and he has us."

The woman smiled faintly and nodded, standing up to go to her own pallet; Nebibi followed. Passing by Bakura's sleeping form, she bent down and brushed a stray lock of cloud-white hair out of his peaceful face.

"No," she murmured to herself. "We'll never stop protecting you, my child. Never."

* * *

**Paradocs: **As a bit of a side-note, "baba" means "father" and "alu" means "child" in Egyptian. If you couldn't tell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** I would like to, at this time, point out a major flaw present in the Millenium/Memory World arc: Akenaden (however you spell his bloody name) has a beard. A very LONG beard. In fact, several men in "Ancient Egypt" have beards, or facial hair, or, gods forbid, ANY HAIR GROWING FROM THEIR SCALP. ... Other than the thieves, of course, because those rules don't apply to them. But guess what? In Ancient Egypt, the only men with ANY hair on their heads were slaves; even the poorest peasant shaved their head. And young boys? They just had a sidelock of hair growing from their head, and THAT WAS IT. And _that_ was shaved off when they became men. Beards were "icky", not wanted (it's fscking HOT there!), and considered barbarian. So, yeah, that's my tirade.  
Alright. Here, have your chapter. Also, newcharactersquee!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

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**Runaway**

Ra's golden barge shone above the eastern horizon as the sun god returned triumphantly from the Lands of the Dead to begin a new day. Despite the early hour, the sand-strewn streets of Kul Elna rang with the sounds of metal clashing on metal as two of the village's inhabitants fought, knife against sword.

The knife-wielder, a young boy who could hardly have been older than nine, ducked gracefully as the larger blade swung at where his left shoulder had been only moments before. He grinned as he popped back up into his original place, drawing a growl of rage from his larger and far-older opponent. The man lashed out with his blade, and again, the youth dodged, only to have his feet kicked out from under him. Snarling, the wild-haired boy rolled away from a chopping blow that would have left him missing an ear, sacrificing some of his white hair instead. He kicked the back of his attacker's right knee, eliciting a howl of pain as the man dropped to the ground, clutching his leg. The knife was pressed against his throat almost instantly as the child stood, smirking at his victory.

"I win," Bakura said flatly, though not without a faint note of pleasure. He pulled the knife away from the man's neck, tucking it into one of the long sleeves of his garment, the long, dress-like clothing that only children and women wore. Turning away, the child looked back at the defeated thief out of the corner of his blue-grey eyes, the casual, nonchalant look of someone who was confident in their skills and didn't care what anyone else might think.

Odji chuckled, getting to his feet with a wince. "Aye, y'win, kid. For the fifteenth time this season, y'win..." His voice trailed off pensively as he gave the small boy a hard, serious look, as though evaluating him. Bakura faced him, his face carefully maintaining the same expression, but now with the shine of excitement in his eyes. The old thief chuckled then, ruffling the child's unruly hair patronizingly. Bakura was the pride of Kul Elna, showing every promise of being as good a thief, if not better, as his father. Many of Nebibi's gang, including Odji, wondered when their leader would bring him along with them on a raid. Set, the boy was nearly ten! It was high time he started getting some time in the field, instead of just practicing the same techniques over and over again.

_Not, _the old thief thought silently, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he continued the watch the stock-still Bakura, _that it'd be right for me to say that in front of 'im. Boy needs his dad to invite 'im along, not for me to create any chaos 'twixt 'em. _Just as he'd opened his mouth to speak, Bakura beat him to the proverbial punch.

"Can I go?" The boy blurted out, before swiftly realizing his mistake and covering his mouth up, eyes wide with shock that he'd said such a childish thing. Odji stared at him for a moment in surprise, then laughed, ruffling his hair again.

"'Can y'go?'" He echoed, with a trace of amusement in his voice. "Well, boyo, ye'll have to take that up with the Boss over there--" He jabbed his thumb in the rough direction of the village's 'stables'-- "Before ya can. An', besides--" Odji found himself interrupted again, this time by a newcomer to the conversation.

"Big bruvva!" A small girl, who looked hardly older than three or four, called from the doorway of Bakura's house. "Big bruvva!" She shouted again, stumbling out the doorway towards the duo. Bakura pushed his way out from behind Odji, who watched as the boy moved with speed that would put a kheft to shame to catch his sister before she fell, his face showing a rare display of panic.

Amenitre giggled from between Bakura's arms. "Bruvva catchered me!" she said in that sweet, high-pitched voice. Bakura's face melted at the sound, and he hugged her tight to him.

"Don't go doing that, Amenitre!" He said, but the words, though almost angry, were said in a tone that was worried, frantic, even. Bakura was tough as nails and a cool-headed, clever boy, but put his sister in any danger, even that of tripping, and he was like a mother hen over her brood. Odji chuckled to himself, wandering away from the siblings to saddle up his horse. Raids waited for no man, after all, and they were capable of taking care of themselves.

The toddler squirmed, her chin-length hair hitting Bakura's tan face lightly until he loosened his grip enough to allow her to sit in the warm sand. She looked like their mother, big blue eyes and midnight-black hair, but when she smiled...! Bakura was certain that Amenitre could make even the cruelest demon's heart melt with the sight of her smile, or the sound of her laughter. He leaned back on his calves until he was kneeling comfortably in front of her. Amenitre's eyes were huge now, her face the very picture of apologetics.

"Sowwy, bruvva," she said, then smiled brightly, reminding him of the sun itself. "Mama said you was out here wiv Odji, an' I wanned to tew you goo' mownings!" Another smile, this one sending a bolt of pure happiness to Bakura's heart.

"Good morning to you, too, sis," he said with his own smile, a genuine expression of happiness that he reserved for her eyes and hers alone. The pair sat there a for moment in silence, listening to the whinnies of horses, the murmurings of the thieves as they prepared to leave and the quiet chatter of the rest of the village as each woke up. Finally, Amenitre spoke, her tone quiet and serious.

"Mama said you wanna go wiv Baba today." It was a statement, a fact that everyone in the village knew. Ever since he could wield a knife and cling to a horse's back, Bakura had wanted to go with his father on the raids. And each and every time, he'd been told no. At first, the reasons had been clear and easy: he was too young, he didn't know enough yet, he needed to practice more. But lately, Bakura sensed that there was another reason, one that no one would tell him. Everyone knew he was as good as any adult with a blade, if not better, and he was more than a fair hand at riding bareback; so why keep him home with the womenfolk and his sisters?

"Hmpf." Bakura snorted, sitting flat on the ground and bringing his legs up against his chest, his good mood ruined by the topic. "So what if I do? He won't let me go. He _never _lets me go. _Never_!" He curled up his hands and toes in the sand, feeling the warm grains rub roughly against his skin. Amenitre scooted closer to him until she was right next to him, and, in the manner of young children when they sense distress, gave him a hug around his cloth-draped shoulders. Bakura ignored the hug, continuing his tirade. "He doesn't let me go, even though I'm nearly ten, nearly old enough to wear the shenti of a man instead of child's clothes!" He shrugged her arms off his shoulders. "'You aren't old enough, Bakura,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "'You need to be better with a knife, Bakura.' 'Maybe next time, Bakura.' But I'm ready _now!_" He faced his sister, eyes blazing with anger, then softened at the worried expression on her face and turned away, resting his chin on his knees with his arms around his legs.

"Maybe you should tawk ta him," Amenitre said gently. "If ya tells him ya really wanna go, an' ya big 'nuff, he'll let ya go today!" She smiled again, with that bliss that comes hand-in-hand with childhood's innocence. Bakura turned his head slightly to look at her.

"You really think so?" He whispered, as though afraid to ask aloud. The girl nodded, her short hair bobbing up and down with the motion. He smiled a little and stood, helping the younger to her feet. "Come on, then," he said in a brighter tone than he'd used all morning. "He's over here, last I checked..."

* * *

"You want to go with us?"

Bakura nodded, his hand tightening around Amenitre's. Nebibi examined him for a moment, then shook his head. "No, no, Bakura. You're still too young, son, too inexperienced. You can stay he--"

"I'm nearly ten, baba!" Bakura burst out, dropping his sister's hand and balling his into twin fists. "Everyone _here_ knows I'm plenty good enough to go raiding with you and the gang! Everyone but _you_!"

Nebibi's face contorted with withheld anger at the outburst. "You're too young still! Next raid, you can com--"

The words did nothing to soothe Bakura. He continued yelling. "Next raid, next raid, it's _always _next raid with you! I'm better than anyone else in this village with my knife! How am I not ready to go with you?!"

_Ssshink! _

Before Bakura could react, he found himself against the wall of the nearest building, his father's blade against his throat. The rest of the gang and Amenitre watched in shock and horror, the air so quiet, it seemed as though the village had suddenly become deserted. Bakura and Nebibi traded glares, grey eyes meeting blue-grey in twin expressions of fury, a bead of sweat streaking down the younger's face. Finally, after a moment or so of stillness, Nebibi moved away, sheathing the deadly blade as he turned back to his men, gesturing for them to get ready to go. Their business was done here for now.

But Bakura's was far from done.

"I hate you!" The youth shouted at the top of his small lungs. Nebibi stopped walking at those words, words that the child had never said before, even during his most petulant tantrums. Tears fell down Bakura's face as he continued shouting. "You just want me to be a child forever!" With that, he turned around and ran out of the village, pushing Amenitre aside as she tried to grab him, past Amisi, who stood, silent, with one hand covering her mouth in shock. Nebibi made as if to go after his son, but two thieves, Odji included, held him back, shaking their heads to indicate to their leader to let the boy be.

"He'll be back by nightfall. He needs time alone right now," Odji said quietly.

* * *

Bakura ran, and he ran, and he ran. He ran through the sands of Egypt until his lungs burned, until his entire body was slick with sweat. When he finally stopped, his body shook, every muscle quivering from the effort of simply staying in one place. From his spot, a good hour's ride from the village, he could see nothing of his home but a lump of whitish mass in the distance. All around him, the open desert beckoned, welcoming it with its heat and silence, its loneliness and freedom.

_Shouldn't've said that,_ a voice murmured in the back of his head. _Only a little kid would say something like that, not someone who's nearly a man._ Bakura found himself agreeing with his conscience, however reluctantly.

"Need t'go back," the Egyptian boy panted, collapsing into the sand to sit, legs still wobbling with the effort of remaining in one spot. "Need... t'... go back--"

Bakura's head fell into the sand as his body shut itself down, too tired to do much more right now than rest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** Believe it or not, I'm working on building a PLAYLIST to go with this story. Yeah. Weird, huh? But, it'll be done by the time this story's over. I swear. =3  
And for the record: Shentis are those nifty kilt-thingies they wore in Egypt. Don't get confused, y'all.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

* * *

**Massacre**

_There was blood, lots of it, the scarlet liquid spreading brilliantly across the sand before the desert absorbed it, like some sick, twisted sacrifice to the gods of the underworld. Bodies lay where they'd fallen, women and children mingled with the men. Some corpses were in better condition than others, hardly mutilated; other bodies lay there, dying still as they fought against the urge to allow their ka to go to be judged by Osiris just yet. Screams and howls of those who had yet to join their fellows mingled with the awful sounds of metal blades clashing against stone or, rarer, on metal; the most common sound was the soft, fatal sound of the blades cutting into flesh. Laughter, harsh and foreign, rang loudest of all. The laughter grew louder as the figures approached, visible only as shadows against the flames that consumed each building. Bakura watched as one smiled, teeth white against the red and black around them, advanced on him, drawing his bloody sword and, with another laugh, threw it straight at his--_

Bakura sat bolt upright in the sand, breathing heavily and drenched in cold sweat. Blue-grey eyes wide in fear, he looked around at his surroundings. It was dark, but not completely; Nuit's star-spangled body and the moon-disk of Thoth's headdress were clearly visible. For a moment, the nine-year-old boy let himself be lost in the sight, letting the lights chase away his nightmare.

It had to be a nightmare, after all. No one but the villagers knew where Kul Elna was, and the villagers were sworn to secrecy. Besides, why would they give away the location of their home? All the villagers were, in one way or another, outcasts from Egyptian society. Amisi for eloping with his father; Odji and the gang for past crimes; himself and Amenitre, for their very existence.

No. Nobody would've revealed Kul Elna's location. They were as good as dead if they were caught. Bakura was sure of it.

Then... if it hadn't been Kul Elna in his dream...

Well, where could it have been? Bakura had never been anywhere outside of the village, other than the desert, and then only on the rarest occasions, this one included. No, it was just a nightmare. A scary dream, nothing more. He should've remembered to wear the charm he'd gotten that dealt with these things. That would've been a good ide--

"Eurgh..." Bakura felt a raw pain gnaw at his stomach, and he clutched at it, mind wheeling to the next topic. He hadn't eaten all day, having run out in a temper before he could have breakfast, let alone steal some food from the stores. A second pain hit him, this time twisting in his heart. How could he have said those things to his father? And then, running off like he had? Bakura couldn't remember ever doing anything like that, even in his youngest, most childish tantrums. The scene replayed in his mind, unbidden, the words haunting him.

_"Everyone_ here _knows I'm plenty good enough to go raiding with you and the gang! Everyone but_ you_!"_

_"Next raid, next raid, it's _always_ next raid with you! I'm better than anyone else in this village with my knife! How am I not ready to go with you?!"_

_"I hate you!"_

Fists clenched tight in sudden anger, Bakura gradually loosened his grip on the nothingness. He had to go back. He wouldn't last long in the desert, and besides, Nebibi was his _father_, as well as his leader. He couldn't say those things without some punishment, but right now, Bakura was willing to do anything, just so he wouldn't be alone in the dark. Getting to his feet, he winced. His mad dash into the sands hadn't been without consequence: his muscles were sore and stiff, and it hurt to stand, let alone move around. Bakura smirked despite the pain. He was thief from Kul Elna, wasn't he? This pain was nothing to a seasoned member of Nebibi's gang; why should it be any more than a slight annoyance to him now? He was going to lead them someday, after all.

Feeling a little more confident, the child began his solitary trek back towards home, guided by the lights that illuminated the faint mass in the distance.

* * *

Bakura was a little way off when he sensed that something was wrong.

This far from the village, he should've been able to hear the horses whinnying in the stables, the chatter of people and the clatter of dishes and bounty as gold was distributed and the evening meal devoured, any sound that a small village could possibly make.

He heard nothing at all, save a slight clatter and some voices. It wasn't normal, even for Kul Elna, this strange silence.

The boy walked a little faster, fear beginning to rise in his chest.

Closer now, Bakura smelt fire, heard the clatter as metal against metal, stone, and flesh. The voices were either raucous or fearful, screams punctuating the air every so often.

The fear in Bakura's chest turned to panic. The boy broke into a run until he reached the very fringe of the village, just behind his house.

What he saw froze his feet to the sand.

Men, tall and well-muscled, wearing once-white shentis and cloth headdresses, fought against villagers, better equipped than anyone in Kul Elna could have ever dreamed. It was hardly a fight, though, the strangers cutting down women and children along with the menfolk. With a sense of horror, Bakura watched his nightmare come to life.

"Bakura!" A wail woke him from his shock, along with a frantic grip on his shoulder. He spun around, finding himself face-to-face with the fear-struck, bloody face of his mother.

"Bakura!" She hugged him tight to her, almost as if she didn't want to let him go. After a moment, she held him out at arm's length. "Have you seen your sister?"

Bakura shook his head, too frightened to speak. He hadn't been home all day; how could he know where Amenitre was? Amisi's eyes widened, twin pools of blue in a barely-tanned face. She pulled him along after her, thrusting him inside their house.

"Stay here," she said, urgency in every line of her body, as she turned away to go. Bakura shook his head, making to follow her, only to be shoved back into one of the shadowy corners. "No," she hissed, suddenly angry. "I won't lose you. I won't lose _any _of you. Don't get caught, Bakura. Be strong, and _wait._" Without waiting for a reply, she ran out, back into the bloody melee that raged in the sand-paved streets. Bakura watched her go, watching from near the doorway. The streets were red and black and wet; the smell of death and smoke was everywhere. The roofs of the buildings, thatched with palms, straw, and whatever else they could gather, danced and burned in the flames.

But Bakura was not interested in that. Not anymore.

"Bakura!" He heard a voice scream. His mother. A twin scream echoed it, younger, but perfectly recognizable to him.

No. No, dear Set and Ra and Osiris, _no. _Bakura nearly ran out of the house, but something stopped him, kept him rooted in place as he watched the bloody scene before him.

Soldiers laughed as they pushed Amisi to the ground, still screaming and clutching something to her, crimson liquid flowing all over herself and the ground and staining everything a horrible color. It was a body.

Amenitre's body.

Bakura couldn't remember when the screams stopped, when the soldiers left Amisi on the ground in a bloody heap. It was as if the whole world had become a blur, a swiftly-spinning mess of red and brown, blood and tears, screams and laughter. But as he stood there, frozen in spot by fear and shock, the images burned themselves into his mind like a brand.

He would never forget. Could never forget. He'd seen the faces of his home die like dogs, and had watched as one man, the only man not dripping blood, roared encouragement to the soldiers.

"For the Pharaoh, and Egypt!" He'd shouted.

Alone now in the dead village of Kul Elna, Bakura found himself turning around, running, back into the desert, into oblivion and freedom and the feeling of being alone.

He was alive, but he felt more dead than the corpses that littered the ground.

* * *

**Paradocs: **I considered making it a lot more graphic than this... but I was worried about scarring someone for life. XP More to come later!


	5. Chapter 5

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated: **T

**Genre: **Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs: **Okay. Yes, that was the most predictable chapter ever. But, hey. Can't blame me, can you? And I _did _consider an alternate version of it (much more graphic), but I didn't feel like pushing my rating up to M if someone got hurt feelings. Anyway... Yeah, that's 'bout it. Don't ask how you could possibly survive in the desert for a few years without starving or being dehydrated beyond reason, and still survive. There IS a reason and research behind these chapters, you know!  
Next chapter means a special new thing, by the way!

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

* * *

**Desert**

Bakura stumbled over the hot sand blindly, his steps erratic and confused. Any creature who tried to follow his footprints in the soft ground would find themself dizzy within minutes. He walked in circles, lines that swayed right and left at random intervals. His white hair, long enough that it brushed his shoulders, was a tangled matted mess, and his face was smudged and sun-kissed, if "kiss" could be used to describe his darkened, almost-burned face.

Not like he cared. He hadn't cared about anything in months, in all of the two years since he'd watched his mother, sister, village, as they were all left in the blood-soaked avenues of Kul Elna, slaughtered like common beasts at the hands of a butcher. Bakura still heard the sounds in his head: screams and laughter, mingled together in the once-still night air; the crackling of flames as they licked at the grass-roofed houses; the ring of metal as it hit stone or, less commonly, metal; the sickening sound of blades passing through flesh...

The boy stumbled over a rock, his nightmarish memories interrupted as he regained his balance, continuing his wandering through the desert. He ignored the pain in his calloused feet, just as he ignored the burning of his dry throat, the hungered pangs of his empty stomach. It had been days since he'd eaten, food stolen from a merchant caravan lost in the desert sands. A roll, long-since gone stale, and a handful of heat-wilted vegetables. He'd taken a waterskin, too, though it had been half-full then, and now lay in the dunes, drier than a mud-brick, so powerful had his thirst been then. Bakura had learned quickly to make his water last, but it had gone too quickly. It was _always _gone too quickly, long before he could begin to quench his thirst.

At first, the hunger and thirst had been terrible, foreign pains that wracked his small body with no remorse and fewer signs of leaving him. How Bakura had howled those first few days in the desert, lost and alone, haunted by nightmares born of his memories, pained by forces he hardly understood, the powers of heartbreak and rage, of an empty stomach, a dry throat, and a tortured mind. But Bakura had learned to deal with these things. He'd learned to ignore the feeling in his belly, in his throat, then to embrace them as friends, even, as things he needed as dearly as he surely needed food and water.

The memories were another matter entirely.

Bakura could not forget that night, much as he'd tried. It slunk into his mind, unbidden, a shadow that fogged his mind and left him huddled in the sand, shrieking and crying tears that had long since gone dry. Forcing it away didn't help either, serving only to reinforce its hold on his thoughts.

So he'd embraced them, too, though not nearly as warmly as he had the pains of his body. He let them wash over him, each scream whistling through his ears, every bloodied body swimming before his eyes as he wandered aimlessly through the harsh sands of Egypt. It was better that way, the eleven-year-old reasoned, letting something else control his thoughts and actions than trying to struggle against it.

Bakura tripped again, and this time, he did not right himself in time. He lay there, sprawled on hard-packed ground, as his eyes evaluated his sudden change in surroundings.

Buildings. Small, run-down, but buildings all the same. Doors hung raggedly off their hinges on some, but, as the street continued, the houses' appeared to be in better condition, giving Bakura the impression that he was in some poor part of a larger city. For a moment, he took in the sight with a sense of wonderment.

A city meant food, water, shelter from the sun and wind and countless khefts that roamed the desert. Fear of the spirits had guaranteed that he got little sleep each day.

But here... He would be safe here, and well-fed, even!

_But cities have soldiers, and people, _a voice in the back of his head reminded. _Soldiers who'll kill anyone who doesn't listen to them, and people who won't want a devil-child like me around. _The child remembered the time when he'd stumbled into a small village not long after his flight from the ruins of his home, begging for food, shelter, water, anything. The men had run him out quickly, the priest in his temple shaking his sistrum and commanding the kheft-child to leave them in peace, "by the order of Ra and Horus". Bakura had been careful to stay clear of villages after that.

Cities were bigger than villages, though._ And these houses_, he reasoned as he got to his feet, _there's no way anyone's living around here. No one who'd run me out, at least. And I need food. I won't be here long. Not long enough for anyone to find me. Maybe they'll have lentils! Set, I'd _kill _for some lentils like Mother used to make. _With that pleasant last thought in place, the child walked forwards, into the city.

He didn't get far before he collapsed.

Hunger and thirst were deadly companions to have with exhaustion.

From the shadows of one house, a pair of eyes watched Bakura.

And they smiled.

* * *

**Paradocs: **Yes! Review, children! Review, and be prepared for next chapter!  
And... "khefts" are demons in Egyptian mythology. I've done a lot more research recently, and I had to put them in there. And, as for why Bakura swears by Set? Set was the god held responsible in the desert, as well as being the god of strength. Bakura's from the desert, and, if you hadn't noticed, is more than a little devoted to the tapir-anteater-weirdanimalthing-god. ... Yeah. No idea what Set's head is supposed to be. DX


	6. Chapter 6

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre: **Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** Well, here we are, at the sixth chapter in this less-than-happy tale! I'm getting a little excited at all the reviews (13? YAY LUCKY!), but, seriously. I know there are people reading this, favoriting, _alerting_ this, who don't bother to tell me "lol i love this story plz write moar" or something. ... By the way, if anyone writes anything as ungrammatical and eye-bleed-inducing as that, I will personally track them down and kill them.  
Aaaaanyway. Yes, there's a new character in this chapter. With any luck, you've guessed who. If you haven't, well, then, you obviously lack curiousity. This is my first time writing this character seriously (AU fics don't count), so, if you've got a problem or hints for me, seriously. Send me a message or a review; I'll take all the constructive criticism I can get about them.  
Okay, I'm done now. Have your silly chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

* * *

**Thieves**

_Blood flowed everywhere. It stained the sand, the mud-brick buildings, the metal swords. What it touched became red, instantly, without the slightest hesitation. Bakura watched in horror as the crimson liquid lapped against his feet, stumbling backwards to avoid its morbid caress. And yet, still it followed. _

_"Get away! Leave me alone!" He shouted in panic, sweeping out a hand as if to banish the blood. But more of the red sprayed out from his hand, collecting in an ugly pattern on his off-white garment, his skin, his face. Skeletons, corpses of Kul Elna, appeared among the tide of blood, walking towards him. Bakura screamed, frozen in place as the dead circled him, pressing closer, closer, fingers touching him, brushing him in their own deathly caress, wanting to bring him with them--_

Bakura sat bolt upright, throwing off the thin cloth that had been draped over him, and found himself confused. He looked around himself, wide-eyed, taking in the sudden change in scenery. This wasn't the desert, nor was it the alley of the city, the last place he could remember seeing. It was a house, the inside of a mud-brick building, much like what he remembered of his home. Judging by the lighting inside, it was evening, around sunset. The sun-warmed floor was colored red where the sunlight flowed through the window. Bakura shivered, remembering his dream. It looked like blood.

"You're awake." The adolescent turned towards the voice, instantly alert. _A thief never gets caught, by anyone, alu,_ he heard Nebibi's voice in his mind. _A caught thief is a dead one, by any law._ A pair of pale violet eyes showed from the shadows where the source of the voice was. It was male, that was certain, but a light, cool voice, too young to be an adult. All the same, Bakura tensed, drawing his body into a defensive position. The figure laughed, amused. "Look. I'm not gonna hurt you. I don't fight." The figure stepped out to where he could be easily seen, and Bakura could have laughed at himself.

It was a boy, no older than him, with golden hair and lilac eyes outlined in kohl. He looked thin, fragile, almost girl-like. He wore the same type of garment as Bakura, though his was in better shape and his sleeves were missing, showing tanned arms. He wore an amulet around his wrist in the shape of an ankh, and armbands the same color as his hair climbed up his arms. Bakura smirked, dropping his stance in favor of a slightly more-relaxed crouch. But he didn't stop watching the boy. Too many scuffles back home had taught him not to relax entirely in any fight; it had nearly cost him more than one fight, and those had been in fun. Here, it'd be serious.

The other smirked as well. "Oh, come _on,_" he said, sounding amused. "You think I'm going to attack you? I told you, I don't fight."

Bakura snorted, still not convinced. You could hide _anything_ in that outfit; he knew from experience. "And Set's going to come down here and kill us all, right?"

"Exactly." Bakura narrowed his eyes at that response. Who was this kid, to act like this, to disrespect the mightiest of gods like that? The blond ignored his expression. "Where're you from, anyway? I've never seen anyone with hair like that." He pointed.

The white-maned boy eyed his messy hair, thinking of an answer. He couldn't tell this stranger the truth, unless he wanted to get killed or driven out like a demon; he'd experienced the latter already. Besides, those memories were still fresh in his mind, if his dreams were any judge. "Doesn't matter," he muttered, then added, more harshly, "And who're you, anyway? You a girl, or just going without a shenti for fun?" The gold-haired boy's expression shifted into a glare. Bakura continued. "And what's with _your _hair? You some sort of freak?"

"I am _not _a _freak_!" The stranger hissed, lavender eyes dark with fury. Bakura tightened his crouch, ready for a fight. This was how he'd done so well in the mock-fights back home: mock and annoy your opponent until they were as angry as could be, and then just take them down from there. People did stupid things when they were mad, after all.

But the blow never came. Instead the boy just pushed his face close to Bakura's. "You want to know who I am, huh? I am Malik," he straightened up, looking proud as any merchant (or so Bakura imagined, from what his father had told him), "the Prince of Thieves and Thebes. The best thief in the city. I can steal gold from the shops of the goldsmiths, the finest cloths from under the guards' noses. Heh," he smirked at the incredulous Bakura. "I even stole _you _from the eyes of the whole street." Malik grinned broadly at the silence that followed. "Impressed?"

Bakura blinked, then, after a moment, laughed, loud and hard. The self-proclaimed Prince of Thieves watched, his face growing more livid with every passing second. Finally, the boy spoke, getting to his feet as he did. "'Prince'? Pft. Look, kid," Bakura tugged his sleeves down so they covered his arms better. "No thief would go around parading their skills for the world to see. Not if they didn't want to end up meeting Osiris." He grabbed a black rod leaning against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, giving Malik a hard stare. "Besides, there's no way you could be that good."

"Oh, yeah?" Malik shot back. "And how would _you _know? Your dad teach you how to steal or something? Where's he now, then? Being a coward, hiding from the guards? Or did Pharaoh catch him trying to take some bread?"

_Crack!_

Malik looked at the shattered remains of the wooden pole lying on the ground. Bakura held one splintery end, his grey-blue eyes glowing with anger. "My father," he snarled in the stunned silence. "My father was the _King_ of Thieves! _King! _He taught me the arts of thieving from the minute I could walk and talk! And he _died _fighting, with a sword in his hand and blood on his chest! Don't you go talking about being a Prince; you know _nothing!_" Bakura flung the broken stick away to clatter against a wall, sinking into a sitting position against the wall, knees drawn up against his head so he couldn't see anything but his lap. The gold-haired boy picked up the end of the rod, creeping closer to the smaller form.

"Wow. That's really... really...." _Thwack! _Bakura glared up at the boy, rubbing at the spot on his head where the wood had hit him. Malik flung his arms up into the air in exasperation. "So your dad died, big deal! Look, just because he was some King of Thieves doesn't mean you're King in his place! I'm still Prince, unless you c'n prove you're the better thief."

The white-maned boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Malik. "And if I don't want to?"

The other shrugged. "Then you're no thief. Just a lost kid staying in my house. With _my _rules, I might add."

Bakura didn't like the sound of that. He stood up again, this time more quickly than before. "Fine, I'll prove it. I'll steal something worth more than what you steal. That alright, or you _scared_?" He sneered. Malik grinned again.

"Yeah, 's fine. But first..." His grin changed to a smirk. "You got a name?"

Bakura hesitated. Names were power, sure, but he had Malik's. Couldn't hurt to give his, since he could probably best the skinny Egyptian in a fight. "Bakura," he said, not wanting to give out any more information than that. Malik laughed, giving him a punch on the shoulder.

"Yeah, sure. C'mon, Baraka," Malik started out towards the door, Bakura following him, protesting loudly.

"Ba_ku_ra! It's Ba_kura_!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** Still amazed that I've made it this far. I'd like to personally thank all my reviewers, because they, unlike everyone else, tell me what they like. Now, if they could just tell me what's wrong...  
Also, since everyone seems to like the addition of Malik to this story, I'm pretty impressed. This is actually my first attempt at writing Malik seriously, so I really would appreciate any critiquing of how I'm portraying him. Because, quite frankly, I'm just going off of what I know and what I percieve, which is probably different from what a lot of others think.  
And, again, PLEASE WRITE COHESIVE REVIEWS. "Great story" or "This is really good, plz keep it up!" doesn't count as a review in my book, just another way of saying that you read it and felt compelled to give me an emotionless compliment.  
I am completely guessing at the city they're in, because I wanted it to be the capital of Egypt; unfortunately, the anime fails at giving out city names, and every source I've read has a different answer. So I went with the one that came up the most. Yay me.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

_

* * *

_

**Accomplices**

Bakura stared in wonder at the scene that lay in front of him and Malik. The other boy watched him, looking more than slightly amused. He spread his hands wide open, gesturing at the busy plaza before them.

"Bakura, I give you, the marketplace of Thebes!" The tan youth announced triumphantly, if mockingly. He stole a glance at the boy beside him, and mentally frowned. Bakura was still gaping at the scene. Malik elbowed him in the side, earning him Bakura's full attention and a matching scowl of annoyance. "Didn't they have a market back home? Where're you from, anyway?" The blonde tilted his head to one side, searching for an answer.

Bakura ignored the question, turning back to watch the marketplace, with all its stalls and people and sounds. True, they hadn't had anything like this in Kul Elna; they'd just distributed the goods evenly, and whatever you made or grew was yours to keep, unless you wanted to trade it with a neighbor or give it away. Not that he was going to tell Malik that; he was still unsure of how trustworthy the Egyptian was. "What're the rules again?" He asked, still watching the flood of Egyptians and trying to block out the shouts of vendors selling their wares.

"It's simple. We each steal the most valuable item we can and bring it back to the house. You get caught, you're on your own." Malik narrowed his lilac eyes. "You sure you can do this?"

Bakura gave him a hard glare, blue-grey eyes like stone. It was an expression he'd copied from his father, something Nebibi had used to reprimend anyone who dared question his judgement. Malik smiled back, glad to have a determined opponent. It would make things interesting, but, if Bakura were to get caught while lost in his obvious-amazement... Well, that was his problem, wasn't it?

"Ready? See you back home, Baraka!" Malik waved mockingly as he darted off into the crowd, Bakura following behind him indignantly.

"It's Ba_ku_ra! Ba_ku_ra, you idiot!"

* * *

A matter of minutes later left the white-haired thief lost in a sea of bodies and booths. He kept his sleeved arms close beside his own body, feeling uncomfortably amidst all the noise and crowding that any other Egyptian might have taken for normal. Bakura kept his eyes busy, roving silently over the displayed items in each stall, mentally making notes on each. He'd been taught how to recognize quality years ago; that was all he looked for now, quality and things he wanted. His earliest lesson was forgotten in his urge to show Malik who was the better thief.

Jewelery. Too bright and gaudy for his liking, and, in his mind, hardly valuable. Only girls wore things like that; he was a _boy_, thank Set.

Next, a cloth merchant. Bakura let himself wander closer so he could see it. Instantly, he wished he hadn't. The clothes he sold were pretty enough, in bright colors, but they were poorly made, that was clear. Bakura wandered away from it, back into the crush of the crowd, feeling more than slightly irritated. Was there nothing of value in this marketplace?

A smell suddenly greeted his nostrils, one that was familiar and, yes, even painful to the would-be thief: the smell of fresh-baked bread. Bakura's stomach let out a grumble of protest. It _wanted_ that bread, and it wasn't going to let its owner walk past it without lifting them a tasty treat to eat. Bakura winced as he felt a pang in his belly. Well, if he was that hungry...

Bakura shouldered his way through the crowd, following the scent to its source. The sight almost made him cry in delight.

It was a baker's stall, crowded with people buying breads and honey cakes and other treats. Bakura slunk closer, watching as the baker, a man with a gut that drooped over the top of his shenti, and his three apprentices handed the customers their goods and took their coppers. One loaf of bread, a largish thing that smelt almost heavenly to the boy's hunger-driven nose, was balanced perilously close to the edge of the booth. It was perfect, too perfect. How easy it would be, for him to take that bread and leave without being caught! Waiting for the baker and his boys to be busied with a fresh crowd of customers, Bakura reached for the bread, and, with the same deftness that had earned him more than one stolen goody back home, took the bread, hiding it in his sleeve. Then, without another word or action, he followed a gaggle of customers away and back into the crowd, heading towards what he remembered as the opening to the street he'd started from.

Oh, how clever that was done! Bakura congratulated himself as he felt the weight of the bread in his clothing. Bread was precious, something that was needed desperately to live! And, if the crowd and the smell were to be believed, this was good bread, something that would fill his belly for a while! And no one had caught him! He was safe, he was free, he was--

"Hey! Stop, thief!" A voice called out, loud and clear. Bakura spun around, eyes wide in panic as he clutched his prize to his chest, hidden though it was. Malik sprinted towards him, a gold chain in hand, and the two collided, landing on the ground.

"Idiot!" Malik hissed, getting to his feet as nimbly as a cat. The other boy stood up slower, slightly dazed by the impact. "Get out of my _way!_" The would-be thief snarled, trying to push past the heavier Bakura. His violet, kohl-lined eyes were narrowed in anger, but only fear reflected from their depths. He was afraid of being caught.

His attempts at getting around Bakura, and the rest of the crowd, stopped abruptly as a tall man, clad in a shenti and a headcovering, grabbed him by the wrist of the hand that held the chain. Malik looked up, and his eyes widened.

"You know what we do to thieves, boy?" The man barked, yanking the chain out of his hand roughly. "Well? Do you?" He pulled Malik's arm higher into the air. The boy winced.

"You... let 'em go?" He ventured, a weak attempt at humor. The man pulled harder at his arm, making him yelp at the pain.

"Thieves need hands to steal, don't they, boy?" The man said harshly. "We take the hand that did the stealing, that's what we do with thieves." He pulled a sword out of his belt, smiling, as if the prospect of lopping off the child's hand was more fun than he'd had in a while.

"Wait!" Bakura shoved himself in between Malik and the guard. "Please, sir, please!" He pleaded, trying his best to sound like a frantic child. "My brother didn't mean any harm! Honest!"

The man frowned, lowering the blade and Malik's arm by a fraction. "Your brother's a thief, boy!" He said angrily. "And thieves lose a hand for stealing! It's the _law_." He raised his sword again, but Bakura grabbed his hand, still managing to look frantic.

"But, sir! You must forgive him! He doesn't have the wits Khnum gave to a dog, he didn't know any better!" He ignored the dirty look Malik shot him; it was for the better, this excuse. "He meant no harm, and you got the chain back, didn't you?"

The guard hesitated again. "Well, I did..."

Bakura smiled, the small smile of an innocent child. "Then, please, let my brother go? I'll make sure he doesn't get into any more mischief, sir."

The man frowned, then sighed, releasing his grip on the arm. Malik rubbed his wrist where he'd held it. "Alright, kid. But, if I see him near this marketplace again--"

"Oh, you won't." Bakura nodded emphatically, keeping up his charade. "Never, ever again, I swear it by Horus, by the--"

The man held up a hand before Bakura could finish his oath. "Just keep him away. Next time I see him near any stalls, I'll take his hand off, then and there, you understand?" The boys both nodded vigorously. The man smiled. "Good. Now, get on home, before you get lost in this kheft-cursed mob, you hear?" His words were lost on the pair as they scrambled out of the crowd and back towards the house they'd been in before. They paused for breath once they were safely out of the marketplace's view. Bakura looked at Malik smugly.

"Well? Do I get anything for that?" He said, smirking. Malik smiled.

"Oh, not to worry," the boy said coolly, putting one hand behind his back. "You'll get something, alright." His smile widened as he revealed the hand. "See?" Malik slapped Bakura across the cheek, making the other boy stumble backwards in surprise.

"You idiot!" The blonde raged. "If you hadn't gotten in my way, I'd've gotten away!"

Bakura's eyes narrowed. "Well, if you weren't stupid enough to steal that from under that man's nose--"

"--I _always _do that!"

"Which makes you more of a fool than I thought," Bakura continued coldly. "What sort of a thief steals when he can be caught just as easily?"

Malik glared at him through his black-lined eyes. "The sort of thief who actually _steals_." He said icily, an obvious barb at Bakura. The white-maned boy shrugged, turning away with the full intention of leaving the Egyptian to fend for himself.

He didn't need this, with the insults and injuries. He was a thief, and he deserved respect from someone as annoying and unskilled as Malik!

But... he _did_ need a place to stay. And Malik needed some training; why not give him some, and mask it as just sharing tips? That would do it, the boy reasoned, turning back around to face the still-irate blonde.

"Fine," Bakura sighed resignedly. "Then I guess you wouldn't want any of _this_?" He pulled the bread loaf out of his sleeve, grinning at the sudden change on the other's face. So, his guess was right: Malik was just as hungry as he was. Bakura split the loaf in half, handing one end to the surprised boy in front of him. When Malik looked at it, then him, suspiciously, the boy couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, come on. You aren't scared of a little piece of bread, are you?" He took a big bite of his own half, chewing it with relish. It was better than it smelled, that was certain! "Mmm," Bakura hummed in pleasure. "Well, if you don't want yours..." He made as if to take back the bread.

Malik snatched it, taking a bite of it quickly. "Not--mff--sca'ed," he said through a mouthful of half-chewed bread. He gulped it down, then gave Bakura a hard look. "You stole this?" He asked, obviously not believing it. The thief nodded, ripping another chunk off his own half and shoved it into his mouth.

"'Course I did," he mumbled through the mass of doughy food. "What, you think I'm gonna buy it when it's faster just to take it?" He smirked. "So. Do I win?" Malik narrowed his eyes, chewing slower as he thought. Finally, he spoke.

"Well, if I still had my _chain_--" a pointed look at Bakura, who ignored it. "I'd've won. But, since you got the bread..." He smiled. "Tie?"

Bakura frowned. He didn't like that idea. Ties were stupid things, tools used by cowards in a fight. _If I didn't need that house so bad..._ "Yeah, fine," the boy grumbled, shoving the rest of the bread into his sleeve. "We may 's well work together, then," he added, making sure he sounded fairly annoyed. Malik nodded and stuck out his hand towards Bakura, who looked at it distastefully. Malik sighed patiently.

"You shake it?" The boy tried again. "To make a deal? That we'll work together and call it a tie?" Bakura gave the hand a second look, then burst out in laughter. Malik gave him an annoyed look.

"Shake on a deal?" Bakura snorted in derision. "Where I come from, you swear it by the gods. That's the only deal _I_ accept, Malik."

The other sighed, exasperated. "Fine, fine. I swear by..." He thought for a moment. "By Horus, Osiris, and Ma'at, we'll call it a tie and work together. That good enough?" Malik narrowed his eyes when Bakura shrugged.

"If you want it to get broken, I guess," the boy said indifferently, then looked up at the sky. "I swear by Set, lord of the desert and its people, and his consort, Tawaret, lady of life, by Ma'at, keeper of truth, and Anubis, weigher of my soul in the Hall of Judgment, to work with you, Malik, as friend, partner, and brother." Bakura recited the vow from memory. It was the same one he'd seen new members of his father's gang swear when they joined, and one he'd committed to memory, for when he joined Nebibi someday. "Your fight is my fight, your enemy mine. I vow that whatever I steal is your bounty also, and to protect your life as if it were mine. If you should fall in battle, I shall avenge you, and see that your ka and ba are safely laid to rest, in the highest honor possible." The white-maned child nodded as he finished his promise.

"_That_ is a swear." Bakura looked at his new partner smugly, only to find that Malik had already started walking towards their house while he'd been talking. Bakura cursed under his breath, sprinting to catch up. He crashed into the clearly-amused Malik, sending them both sprawling on the ground. They glared at each other for a moment, then started laughing, the blonde first, followed a few moments later by his new friend.

"Longest swear I've ever heard. Think mine'll work just fine, Bakr--" Malik was interrupted by the other.

"Ba_kura. _Get it wrong again, and I'll risk the wrath of the gods and strangle you." Bakura growled, then laughed at Malik's face. It was nice, having a friend to joke with. Even if those jokes revolved around his name.

* * *

**Paradocs: **I swear, I could've done this better. Probably. Anyway, this is the last of this segment of the story! The next chapter'll be... different. In so many ways. XD


	8. Chapter 8

**Birth of a King**

**Summary:** "You destroyed my village and took me away from my family! I can never be whole again, and for that, I will never forgive you." His fate sealed from the start, his life was nothing more than an endless sea of rage and revenge... or was it?

**Rated:** T

**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort

**Paradocs:** Yes, yes, I finally started writing this again. My muse died a while back, somewhere around the time I lost my original manuscript. And not working on this for a while meant that what I _had_ written was deleted.  
So, bleh. I wrote this up instead. The fun part's coming up soon, I swear! In the mean time, well, hope that I get enough muse to finish this before the end of next month!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Bakura, or anything vaguely resembling this series. But someday... _Someday._

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* * *

_

**Visions**

_"Bakura?"_

The pale-haired boy looked around him, searching for where the voice came from. It had been familiar, something the teen had heard before, but not recently. Hesitantly, he called out to the darkness that surrounded him.

"Who's there?"

A chuckle from the shadows, a sound that echoed a thousand times around Bakura. Or were a thousand voices laughing?

_"You've forgotten me? Us?"_

The fifteen-year old blinked. _'Us'_? He frowned, suddenly angry.

"Look, if this is about that turf fight, me'n'Malik won, Jarha. You and your gang got the upper part of the river, so be happy with tha--"

_"We are not some childish 'gang' you warred with, Bakura." _The first voice said.

_"We are greater than that. _Were _greater than that." _A second voice added, a sound that was clearly female. The young thief shook his head, feeling as if his head were filled with flour and cloth.

_"You don't remember?"_ A much younger, higher-pitched voice said, sounding hurt. _"But, brother--"_

Grey-blue eyes widened at that word. "Amenitre?" Bakura whispered, almost afraid to speak too loudly for fear of losing his sister again. The young voice giggled, clearly pleased by his recognition.

_"I knew you'd remember me!"_

"You sound... older," Bakura said, stepping closer to the place in the darkness where his sister's voice sounded loudest. "You grew up, sis."

_"As did you," _said the second voice, now recognized by the adolescent as his mother. _"Look at you now, my big, strong boy, all grown up." _One of the shadows twined itself around his shoulders, and Bakura felt it squeeze him in an imitation of a mother's embrace. _"You've remembered to say all your prayers, haven't you? The gods have blessed you, keeping you safe for so long--"_

_"You forgot us."_ Nebibi, the first voice said flatly, cutting off his wife's words._ "You watched us die, and then you left us to pursue your own life."_

"N-no!" Bakura stuttered indignantly, watching the shadows crowd almost oppresively close to him. "I never--"

_"Six years, Bakura. Six years we've waited, watched as you grew up and forgot about us." _Now it was as if the voice of his father came from every direction, from all of the shadows, Amenitre and Amisi's voices swallowed into the mass of sound.

"I never forgot!" He shouted, hands curling into fists by his sides. "I just--"

_"You left us here, in the darkness," _the black mass hissed. _"You left us and went on to live your own life." _Bakura saw the area around him shrink as the voices hemmed him in, leaving him barely enough room to stand. _"You abandoned Kul Elna and forgot everything you knew. Everything _we_ taught you."_

"No!" Bakura cried, scrambling to get away from the oppressive darkness that surrounded him. "I didn't-- I never--"

_"You made a pact with a petty _pickpocket_--" _Nebibi spat the last word, as though it carried a bad taste. _"And for what? Hm?"_

"He... he _helped _me--"

_"'Helped'?" _The shadows laughed, a cruel, harsh sound that sent shivers across Bakura's skin. _"You, who bragged that he was the best thief in Kul Elna, who said he needed no help from anyone, reaching out for help from a street-brat?"_ Black tendrils danced across the boy's arms, smoke-like in appearance but as solid as if they'd been flesh-and-blood. _"Give it up, Bakura. You forgot everything about Kul Elna; admit it."_

The young thief shook his head vigourously from side to side. "I didn't!" He shouted, trying to convince the spirits around him. "I don't need anyone's help; I never did!"

_"Then what is your reason for the alliance you hold with Malik, if not assistance?" _His father's voice sounded amused, if curious, as though it were truly dying to hear Bakura's reason.

And what _was _that reason, if not for the other boy's help? Bakura thought, trying to find the answer himself.

"W-well," the teen started, feeling strangely timid as he spoke with the ghosts of his village. "I needed shelter in Thebes. He gave me that--"

_"And can you not get that yourself, now that you are older?" _This time, it was Amisi who spoke, her voice carrying a trace of motherly concern. _"You've been in the city for a few years now, after all. Surely you could find a place for yourself?"_

Nebibi snorted in derision. _"A real thief doesn't live in the city like some pampered merchant," _he said coldly. _"Nor does he steal trifles from marketplaces, to be used for his personal adornment, like a noblewoman." _One smokey arm reached out to pull at the golden bands that crawled up his slim tan arms. _"My son, turned into a well-bred lady in just a few short years."_ His tone was mocking, and the darkness laughed with him as Bakura's fury grew with each cruel note.

"What should I do, then, if I'm to be a _proper _thief?" The boy asked, his tone icy as he fought to keep himself from losing his temper. "Break a pact I made with the gods? Or should I kill myself and join you in the Afterlife?"

The laughter stopped suddenly, cut short by his words. There was silence for a moment, then:

_"He never swore a true pact, that alleged 'partner' of yours," _his father sounded less cruel, more logical, like he had when he'd been alive. _"Any vows you swore with him are annulled, Bakura. The gods honor those who avenge true wrongs than those who play at making promises."_

_"You need to rid yourself of Malik, Bakura," _Amenitre's voice said quietly, as serious as their father. _"A robber like him doesn't even deserve to live, if he's keeping you from the vengeance that is yours by rights, brother."_

Bakura's eyes went wide with horror at the very idea. "N-no, I can't!" He said, slumping onto the ground and curling into a tiny ball as he sat there. "He... He doesn't even _know _about you. About _us_," he corrected quickly, as he felt the blackness around him flare with anger.

A few of the tendrils coiled themselves around his shoulders, hugging him tight. _"Oh, my sweet, sweet child," _Amisi said quietly. _"Alu, don't you see? How can you call him your partner if he doesn't even know you? Do you trust him enough to tell him, alu?"_ Bakura looked around himself, then back down at the ground in defeat. Amisi continued. _"If he found out, he might kill you, or tell soldiers, who would kill you, like they killed us." _The dead woman's voice sounded upset at the thought. Nebibi continued for her.

_"If you cannot trust your partner, what must you do, Bakura? Tell me."_ The ghost ordered. Bakura looked up at him, remembering the lessons from his childhood.

"You must kill them, baba," the boy said quietly. "If they were to live, they might betray you."

The black shadows nodded approvingly, the tendrils around his shoulders fading away to rejoin the dark mass of ghosts. _"So what must you do, Bakura?" _They asked in a single voice as the only living person among them got to his feet again. He faced them, his brown face radiating the same quiet power as it had when he'd been a child of nine.

"I must kill him," Bakura replied, his voice emotionless. "Before he can betray me."

_"And then?"_ The voice pushed closer to him, sounding eager to hear his answer to this latest question.

"Revenge." The fifteen-year-old boy said simply. "I get revenge on your killers for your deaths. For our village."

The shadows seemed to smile, or would have, had they had mouths. _"And who killed us, Bakura? Do you know?"_ The boy's cool expression faltered as he struggled to find an answer. The ghosts laughed as one. _"Never mind. When you have killed Malik, come home. We will tell you then." _The darkness faded away, leaving Bakura alone to face the murky question of how to carry out his gristly task.

When Bakura awoke, he knew one thing was clear: Malik had to die, if he was to see his family again.


End file.
